


Whiskey on the Rocks

by StormDancer



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Bartender Zayn, M/M, Musician Harry, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 01:35:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2173035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormDancer/pseuds/StormDancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the same every Thursday. Zayn makes drinks, smirks his way into more tips, jokes with Niall, watches Harry seduce the bar with songs about a boy he can't have, and wishes more than anything that that boy was him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiskey on the Rocks

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic was inspired by the prompt i got for a one sentence fic, which was "zarry, musician!harry/bartender!zayn". I filled it--but it got me thinking, and this happened. This is why you prompt me, people--sometimes you don't get a ficlet at all, but sometimes you get long fics. 
> 
> As always, many thanks to my beta Celia and to Denice. Boys are their own, I know nothing, I'm pretty sure this didn't happen.

“Excuse me? Can we get a drink over here?” Zayn blinks. He drags his eyes away from the stage, where Harry’s purring out a song that’s all sex and need, his eyes half-lidded as he looks out over the crowd, to the person across the bar. The nasally, demanding voice came from a guy in a button-down shirt with the first button undone, and his hair spiked up like it’s 2000. Zayn tries, very hard, to feel bad about not doing his actual job and serving him, but he finds it difficult when he looks like such an ass.

“Sorry,” he says, though, because Niall’s a great boss, more of a friend really, but he actually does need this job, “I didn’t hear you.” It’s a valid excuse; the bar’s loud with people talking and Harry’s music drifting sensually over it all. “What was that?”

The guy heaves the biggest sigh in the world, like the fact that a bartender took a few more minutes to take his order is going to ruin his fucking life, then rattles off an order that sounds like a high-maintenance Starbucks order. Zayn nods and turns around to grab the lemons. He mixes and pours, letting Harry’s voice sink into him, then shoves the highball glass over at the guy, who yells his name to put it on his tab.

Zayn enters in the information, then takes the chance to steal another look at the stage. Harry’s hunched over his guitar, his hair falling across his face like some sort of rom-com shit, his fingers sure on the strings. He’s electric on stage, always is, since he started playing here six months ago; got this presence that makes everyone look at him, even when they’re talking to other people. Zayn’s seen dates be distracted when Harry starts one of his songs with the dirty smirk that sits so devastatingly on his cherub’s face, seen people stop in the middle of pouring out their hearts to look. He can’t blame them, of course. Zayn’s hands shake, sometimes, when Harry starts to sing, when he grins at the crowd with his knowing look, like he knows all of them want him. When he starts crooning out one of his slower songs, the ones that hit right into Zayn’s heart, the songs about _look up, just look up_ and _your smile turns my night to day your touch turns my rain to sun_.

Harry looks up as the song ends, glances around. His gaze lights on Zayn, and and Zayn smiles a greeting. Harry flashes him a quick goofy face back before he turns back to his set.

After that he gets distracted, people pushing up to the bar and making him actually do his job, so he gets carried along with it, barely even noticing when the music’s stopped because a bachelorette party’s just come in and he’s getting five hundred cosmos ready as two of the women giggle at the bar, already more than halfway drunk from the way they hang off each other.

“This is delicious,” one of them, a blonde in a blue dress that shows off all her curves, says as she takes a sip, “What’s your secret?”

Zayn smirks back, lets his tongue flick out to wet his lips. Bachelorette parties always tip the best, especially with a bit of flirting. “Can’t tell you that, babe, or it wouldn’t be a secret anymore.”

She leans in, her shoulder blades pinching back so her tits show to better advantage. Zayn tries not to look, but not very hard. If she’s putting on a show, he might as well appreciate it. And bridesmaids tend to appreciate being appreciated, he’s found. “What if I promise not to tell anyone?”

“Don’t know if I can trust you…” He sets the last two cosmos on the bar. “Need to keep you coming back for more, yeah?”

“Don’t worry.” She winks at him, and smiles pleasantly as she gathers up the tray, “I’ll definitely be back.”

“Maybe you can get it out of me then.” It gets him another wink, and she sashays away with the tray in one hand with enough ease that he wonders if she’s a waitress, or was.

He grabs the bill she’s left on the table and is turning back to the bar to grab some empties while he has a chance when he senses, more than sees, who slides into the space just vacated by the woman in blue. He never needs to look to know where Harry is, it seems.

“So, who was she?” Harry asks, and Zayn shrugs as he puts down the glass, and starts grabbing the makings for Harry’s appletini. “Looked hot.”

“Not the bride,” Zayn replies. “She was watching you during her set, if you, like, want—”

“Seemed pretty busy flirting with you,” Harry points out. “Get her number?”

“I don’t sleep with people I meet in the bar,” Zayn tells him, for what feels like the thousandth time. It’s a long held policy. Going home with people who know where you work is generally a bad idea for one-night stands, he’s found, and it tends to cut down on clientele in a way bar owners tend not to appreciate.

“Right.” Harry glances down at the bar again, but when he’s looking up he’s grinning, dimples deep in the corners of his mouth. “So what did you think of my new song?” he demands.

Zayn kind of wishes he didn’t know exactly what song Harry was talking about, but the fact is he does. The fact is, he knows every one of Harry’s songs, finds himself humming them sometimes as he works even when Harry isn’t there, even if Niall looks at him really weirdly when he does.

“I liked it,” he says, dropping the cherry into the glass that Harry always requested for no reason Zayn could see, then sliding it across the bar to Harry, “It was great, like, the bridge was haunting or whatever. I got proper chills.” He picks up a rag to scrub at the bar, so it looks like he’s doing something, if Niall decides to start caring. “Sadder than usual, though.”

“Well, I’ve been sad lately,” Harry explains. Zayn narrows his eyes at him. He doesn’t look sad, sipping at his appletini, but what if he is? Zayn doesn’t like the thought of Harry being sad, of all that energy turning inward to eat him alive, like happens to Zayn sometimes. “So my songs are sad too.”

“You don’t seem sad,” Zayn points out, slowly.

Harry grins. “Well, I’m with you.”

It’s such a throwaway comment, one of Harry’s easy flirtations Zayn’s seen him throw around like candy, like Zayn does too, both of them mugging for the money, but it still makes Zayn blush and look down. Somehow he’s never managed to be quite so smooth with Harry as he is with everyone else.

“Zayn,” Harry whines, “I’ve only got five more minutes before I’ve got to go on, and you already wasted five minutes talking to someone else. You should talk to me.”

“Not much for talking,” Zayn retorts, pulling himself back together, and looking back up at Harry just in time to see him spit a tied cherry stem onto his palm, almost the same color as his lips. Zayn’s pretty sure he blacks out for a second.

“Me neither, really,” Harry grins again, almost a smirk. “Shit, I was wrong, I’ve got to go back now. Listen to my next set, yeah? Please?”

“I always do,” Zayn replies, almost in a daze. The cherry stem’s still sitting on a napkin next to Harry’s half-finished drink. He’d like to say that’s not how all his conversations with Harry went, but he’d be lying. He’s never figured out quite how to talk to Harry when he’s being all…Harry. Magnetic and brilliant and charming, all those things Zayn’s never really felt, never really thought he could feel.

Like every Thursday, he listens to the end of Harry’s set, flirts with various clients who want to, collects his tips, and listens to Harry ramble as he closes. He rallies a bit, feels like he gets his own moments when he takes Harry a bit aback, with snark or flirtation or just anything that makes him feel like he’s not the only one who’s working without a net here, but in the end Harry bids him good-night with a bright grin, and it’s Zayn who walks home humming songs sung by a boy he can’t really have.

\---

“Harry was really on tonight, wasn’t he?” Niall asks, nudging Zayn’s hip with his as he passes by with a tray full of empties. Sometimes Zayn wonders if the only reason Niall actually owns the bar is so he can work whatever position he wants without being yelled at.

Zayn snorts. “On stage, or now?” he asks, and drags his eyes away from Harry, where he’s sitting on the edge of the stage talking intently with a guy. He had been. Especially when he was playing a new song, another one of the ones that might as well be odes, paeans to the beauty and wonder of whoever it is he’s so desperately in love with. If Zayn were another person—if Zayn thought he was more than just the guy Harry flirted with when he was bored, that he could be more—Zayn might have been jealous, might have hated that other person. But as it is, he’s more envious than anything else. He hopes the person, whoever it is, wherever they are, know Harry is singing their song.

“Both,” Niall chuckles back, and pats Zayn comfortingly on the shoulder. “He probably needs a drink. You could go bring it to him.”

“Think he’s busy.” Zayn slides the pint across the bar, then enters it in the guy’s tab.

It’s Niall’s turn to snort. “He’s never too busy for you, Zayn.”

“What’s that mean?” Zayn raises an eyebrow at Niall, then smiles at the man who’s edging himself between a group of barely-legal girls giggling at the bar and the date on barstools that are taking up far more room than Zayn thinks is polite. “What’ll it be?”

“Whiskey, straight up.” The guy’s voice is rough. He looks like he’s got a face for smiling, with a strong jaw and warm brown eyes under a shaved head, but right now there are bags under those eyes and his broad, muscled shoulders are slumped.

Zayn nods at him, then shoots Niall a look, who shrugs.

“Means nothing,” he tells him, as Zayn pulls out the whiskey to pour it into a tumbler. If it was anyone else, Zayn would think Niall was trying to make a point, but it’s Niall. He says what he means.

So Zayn shrugs and turns back to the bar. The guy has his head resting in his hands, rubbing at his temples. He looks like Zayn always imagined Hemingway, at his bars in Paris. And as everyone knows how well that turned out, he doesn’t move away once the guy’s slid some cash across the counter.

“You okay, mate?” he asks instead. The guy looks up and tries to smile, but it’s pretty obvious it’s not real.

“Fine, thanks.”

“Okay.” First thing Zayn learned as a bartender is that some people want to pour out their woes, and some people just want alcohol and no judgment. He’d gotten pretty good at differentiating them, and he’d pegged this guy as the former, but he’ll never force anyone to talk. He’s not that hypocritical. “If you aren’t, let me know.”

He turns away, just a bit, and sure enough there’s a groan. “I’m not okay,” the guy admits. He brings the whiskey to his lips and drains it, then pushes it back across the bar in the universal signal for another. Silently, Zayn fills it. “I…do you ever get sick of this whole social media thing? Having your whole life out there for everyone to see and talk about?”

He pauses long enough that Zayn thinks he should answer. “’m not even on Twitter,” he replies with a shrug.

“You’re lucky.” The guy studies the bottom of his whiskey glass. Over his shoulder, Harry’s still talking to that guy, but he glances over when Zayn’s looking to meet Zayn’s gaze. He winks, ridiculously, and Zayn wrinkles his nose sarcastically back, before returning his attention to the guy. “I am.”

Zayn hums, waiting. There are other customers, he knows, but Niall can take care of them. This is important.

The guy turns the glass between big fingers. “I broke up with my girlfriend today,” he admits. “Or she broke up with me, I guess.” He gestures with the glass, and Zayn refills it. “I said something stupid on Twitter, about some girl in a bar I guess? I was drunk, I don’t know. And she saw it, and now we’re over.”

He gives Zayn a big, plaintive look. “It’s not like I meant anything by it! I was just drunk.” He swirls the whiskey again before taking a long drink. “And nothing you say when you’re drunk counts, right? I mean,” he goes on before Zayn can agree, “Maybe everything wasn’t all good before this?”

Zayn listens through the whole sad tale, of two kids in love who didn’t know how to grow together, of how much the guy loved her but she was so frustrating sometimes, never wanting to go out and always getting mad at him for the smallest things and making fun of all his interests

(“She says it’s weird I still like Batman.”

At that, Zayn has to speak up. “Batman’s eternal, man.”

“I know!”)

It’s not actually an unusual story, or one Zayn hasn’t heard before, but the heartbreak is real, so he listens. Listens, and tries to refill the guy’s glass slowly, to pace him even if he’s in no mood to be paced.

It takes fifteen minutes for him to wind down, at the end of which he looks up again with a slightly less fake smile. “Sorry, I’ve been taking up all your time. You’ve probably got other people to serve.”

“I go where I’m needed.” Zayn smiles back at him, softly, trying for comforting. “What—”

“Who’s your friend, Zaynie?” A voice says, appearing next to the guy. Zayn would jump, if he hadn’t been aware of Harry moving, like he always is. If he couldn’t have told you when he left the stage, how he circled the room before ending up at the bar, even when Zayn wasn’t trying to pay attention.

“’m Liam,” the guy—Liam—tells Harry. He’s fading again, a bit, in the face of Harry’s exuberance, so Zayn gives Harry a meaningful look.

“He’s just broken up with his girlfriend,” he tells Harry, and something changes in Harry’s face, going less aggressive, somehow, even though Zayn wouldn’t have called it aggressive beforehand.

“Oh.” Harry pats his hand. “That sucks. Do you need someone to get drunk with?”

“Yeah, I need to get drunk,” Liam agrees. “Isn’t that supposed to make a broken heart better.”

“We can only try,” Harry nods. Zayn wonders if he even knows what he’s talking about. Who would ever have broken his heart? “A shot for both of us?” he asks Zayn.

“And for you,..Zaynie?” Liam adds, “For listening.”

“Zayn,” Zayn corrects. Harry’s lips twitch, as he takes the shot glass full of one of their decent vodkas (Zayn is too old to be shooting bad vodka).

“To broken hearts,” Liam says, raising his glass.

Harry clicks his against Liam’s, shaking back his hair. “To understanding the songs.”

His eyes are bright and almost hectic, with the energy he’s still carrying from the stage; his cheeks are flushed red, and his shirt is gaping open to reveal the strong planes of his chest, the ink spread there like it’s asking to be licked. Who broke his heart, Zayn wonders again. Who gets the songs he sings, the ones where he pours his heart out of his voice and guitar, pure and beautiful and devoted?

“To surviving,” Zayn adds, and clinks their glasses together before tossing back his shot. The others follow suit, and in the shadows Zayn can almost believe Harry is still looking at him.

The next few hours are a bit of a blur. Zayn gets pulled away, now that he knows Harry is taking care of Liam, so he goes off to serve other people and actually do his job, jokes with Niall and the customers, mops up a few spills and even takes a flaming shot to show a bunch of kids at a birthday party how to do it. He goes back to Harry and Liam as often as he can, making sure they’re still okay, but it always seems like they are. By midnight, they’re whispering together, thick as thieves, when Zayn comes over.

“Everything okay?”

“Yep!” Harry informs him, grinning big enough that the dimples look almost painful. “You should take another shot with us, though.”

“Gotta work, babe,” Zayn retorts, and looks at Liam. “You good?”

“Yeah.” He sighs, but he’s clearly generally a giggly drunk, because he can’t really keep a morose face. “He’s a musician,” he informs Zayn, pointing at Harry. “Did you know that?”

“Had come to my attention, yeah.”

“He’s good. He writes songs. He said he’d write one for me, about my break-up. Call it ‘Twitter out of the park’.”

“That’s even worse than usual,” Zayn chuckles. He grabs their empties, wipes up the condensation left on the bar, and can’t quite meet Harry’s eyes when he grins again, quick and bright.

“You love my jokes, don’t lie.”

“They’re sometimes so awful they’re good,” Zayn allows, and reaches out to tug on a curl. Harry catches his hand when it’s next to his face, wraps both of his hands around it so he’s got it well and trapped.

“No, you love them, I know you do,” he counters.

“Don’t.”

“Admit it,” Harry teases. The back of his hand is against his cheek, so if he moved it Zayn would be caressing his face, basically. “If you admit it, I’ll…”

“Write a song about me?” Zayn suggests wryly. Harry lets out a laugh, something almost hysterical about it.

“Yeah, I’ll write you a song. It’ll only be jokes.”

“Then I’d better not admit anything,” Zayn retorts.

“It’s bad form to flirt in front of someone who’s just broken up,” Liam cuts in sternly. He bats at Zayn’s arm. “Stop it.”

Zayn ducks his head, pulls his hand away. Harry’s grip tightens, like he doesn’t want to let go, because he’s contrary like that, but eventually Zayn manages to get free. “Sorry,” he tells Liam.

“It’s all right. If you get me another whiskey.”

Zayn laughs again, and does.

It’s two when Liam leaves—or more precisely, when Zayn pours Liam into a cab because the bar is closing. Liam grabs onto Zayn’s arm and professes his deep and undying love and appreciation, and swears he’ll never go to another bar ever again, and that he’s quitting Twitter forever. Zayn expects none of those things to be true, but he smiles and rubs his head and writes his number on Liam’s arm in case he’s found passed out in a ditch.

When he gets back inside, everything’s basically done—the chairs are up, the bar’s cleaned, and Niall’s just finishing sweeping.

“Sorry,” Zayn tells him. Most of those are actually his job.

“No problem. He okay?”

“He’s in a cab. He’ll be okay. Need me to do anything?”

“Just one thing left.” Niall jerks his head over at the bar, where Harry’s still sitting on a stool, his head resting on his interlaced fingers on the bar. “Can you pour him into a cab too?”

Zayn bites his lip. He didn’t know Liam, not really, for all he liked him. But Harry…

“I’ll take him back to his,” Zayn decides. Just to make sure. Harry’s the sort of person who wouldn’t just end up in a ditch, he’d end up in a ditch in Australia with no shirt and a goat. “If you don’t need me?”

“Nah, I’m good. Get your boy back.”

“Not my boy,” Zayn retorts, and goes over to get Harry.

Harry’s halfway to passed out when he gets there, it seems, but when Zayn puts his hand gently on his shoulder he jolts up. “’m awake!” he announces, then, “Zayn!”

“Hey, babe. Time to go home.”

“Don’t want to go home. Want to stay here.” Harry’s slurring pretty badly, but it’s somehow cute on him, the looseness of drunkenness. “Want to stay with you.”

“Well, I’m taking you home, so you’re in luck. Come on, up,” he urges, and wraps an arm around Harry’s waist to get him to his feet. He doesn’t think about how Harry is draped over him, at all.

“You’re taking me home? Finally? Really?” Harry asks. He’s got an arm over Zayn’s shoulders to lean on, and Zayn can feel the muscles of his thighs pressed against Zayn.

“Someone’s got to make sure you don’t die.”

“Won’t die if you’re here.” He’s basically talking into Zayn’s neck, and Zayn has to will himself not to notice. Then he straightens, his eyes widened. “Wait! Need my guitar.”

“Here you go,” Niall’s somehow magically there, holding the guitar case out to Zayn, who takes it with his free hand. “Good luck.”

“Might need it.”

“Never need it,” Harry tells him, as Zayn levers them out of the bar and into the streets. “You don’t need luck with me, never did. Don’t need anything with me.”

“Okay, babe. Where do you live?” Harry reels off an address that’s pretty far away, actually. Zayn has no idea how he gets home usually. But Zayn only lives a bit away, and while he usually walks, it’s not an expensive cab ride. That’ll do. So he hails a cab through some interesting juggling between Harry and the guitar, pushes the guitar and Harry in, then gets in himself. He gives the cabby a sympathetic look and his address.

“That’s not my place,” Harry objects. He’s immediately rearranged himself so he’s basically in Zayn’s lap, he’s so close, and Zayn can feel all the warmth of him.

“No, it’s mine. It’s closer.”

“Yours?” Harry lifts up his head so he can look at Zayn with bleary eyes. “You’re taking me to yours?”

“That okay?” Zayn bites at his lip. He should have asked, he guesses, but it’s just for a night; he hadn’t thought Harry would object.

“Yeah, it’s the best.” Harry lets his head fall back onto Zayn’s shoulder, nuzzles in so it’s more in between his neck and his collarbone. “You’re the best.”

“Okay, Harry.” Almost of it’s own accord, Zayn’s wrapped an arm around Harry’s shoulders, and is playing with the ends of his hair. He’s always loved playing with hair—did it with his sisters, girlfriends, anyone. It’s instinct to do it now. And Harry doesn’t seem to notice.

“You are, though. Knew it the instant I saw you. Almost dropped my guitar.”

“You’d never drop your guitar.”

“Said almost.” Harry’s breath is warm against Zayn’s throat. He’s never been this close before. It’s almost weird, his actual presence, like a dream taking shape. He’s not quite sure what to do with it. “You taste good.”

“Thanks?”

“Knew you would.” Harry licks him again. Zayn swallows against the urge to jump, against the urge to just push him back into the cab’s dirty seats and kiss him. It’s fine. Zayn can control himself. “’ve dreamed about it, what your skin’d taste like.” He licks again, and Zayn closes his eyes for a second. How drunk is he? “Wanted to write about it, but couldn’t quite figure that one out.”

“Pity. I’d have liked a song.” Zayn manages to choke it out.

“You’ve got a song.” Harry’s moved from licking to pressing little kisses to Zayn’s collarbone where it’s bared by his loose-necked t-shirt. “You’ve got all the songs. They’ve been about you since I met you. They were about you before I met you, too, but I didn’t know it yet.”

“That’s sweet.” What had Liam said? Nothing you say when you’re drunk counts. And Harry’s so gone. He doesn’t mean anything by it. He’d probably be confessing his love to a fire hydrant if Zayn had let him go alone.

“Isn’t it?” Harry purrs, basically, and it vibrates through all of Zayn’s bones. “You’re sweet. Taking care of Liam like that.”

“Just doing my job.”

“No, you just do it. You’re the best listener, you know that? Liam told me so too, but I told him that he couldn’t have you. That you’re mine.” There’s teeth, this time, digging just a bit into his skin, and Zayn does jump this time.

“Harry!”

“You are,” Harry insists, lifting his head. “You’re mine, or you will be. I’ll do it. You’re already in all my songs and in my head and no one else will ever get that.” His eyes are dark, and his smile is more like baring his teeth. “Not even when you flirt with everyone else too.”

“You flirt with everyone,” Zayn points out. Doesn’t mean anything, he repeats to himself, like a mantra, like a spell. He won’t tell Harry about this, and then Harry can go back to whoever his songs are really about.

“Doesn’t matter.” Somehow, Harry manages to pull himself closer, so there’s no room between them at all. “You’re the only one who matters.”

Fuck, Zayn wishes that were true. But there’s the person in his songs, and if Harry had wanted that, he’d had plenty of opportunities to try before. They’ve been flirting for months, after all.

Thank god, they pull up outside of Zayn’s apartment building. Zayn pays the cabby, then gently untangles himself from Harry to get out. Harry pulls his guitar with him when he slides out, but he immediately drapes himself over Zayn again, the guitar case banging against Zayn’s hips until Zayn takes it from him

“Take me upstairs, Zayn,” he whispers into Zayn’s ear, and his tongue flicks out to lick at the lobe.

Of course Harry’s a sexual drunk. Zayn wouldn’t have expected any differently. “Okay, come on.” he unlocks the door, and ushers Harry in. Usually he takes the stairs, but he doesn’t think he can juggle everyone on the stairs, and he doesn’t trust Harry not to overbalance and fall, so instead he pushes the button for the elevator.

They’re waiting when suddenly Harry pulls back, straightens, with his eyes panicked. “My guitar!”

“Right here, babe.” Zayn gestures with it, and just like that Harry’s relaxed against him again.

“’course it is. You take such good care of it. Of me. Of everything.”

Zayn would shrug, if it wouldn’t dislodge Harry. “Not hard to remember a guitar.”

“You don’t even know!” Harry digs his chin into Zayn’s shoulder. “You don’t listen. If you did you’d know.”

“Thought I was the best listener.”

“You are! But not to the right things.” The elevator dings open, and Zayn pulls Harry in after him, then punches the button for 4. “Maybe I should give you a private concert. Maybe then you’d listen.”

“You know I always love to listen to you play.” Does the elevator always take so long?

“Yeah, that’s good. And I’d have to be naked.” Zayn’s whole body freezes up, and Harry laughs into his neck. “I play best when I’m naked.”

“What—” Zayn clears his throat. “Whatever you want. Maybe when you’re sober.”

“Whatever I want?” Harry’s hands slide down, over Zayn’s ass, and he jumps again.

“Hands, Harry,” he warns.

“You said whatever I want.”

“I meant—”

“And I was good.” Harry pouts, his lip jutting out in an expression that should look utterly ridiculous, but somehow isn’t. “Didn’t do half of what I want. Want to taste all of you. Want to go to my knees right here. Want to hear you, hear your voice. Love your voice, did I say that?”

“Harry,” Zayn manages not to make it a moan, somehow. The elevator doors ding open. “Come on.”

“Always.” Zayn rolls his eyes as he leads Harry to his flat with a hand at his back. Harry rests his chin on Zayn’s shoulder as he unlocks the door, mouthing idly at his ear in a way that makes Zayn nearly drop his key, but eventually he manages to get them in, and closes the door behind him.

Harry let go of Zayn to glance around with wide eyes. Zayn’s not sure what he’s seeing, because it’s just a normal flat, a bit messy because Zayn’s never really cared. Then he turns to Zayn, and smiles. He might be drunk, might still be swaying slightly, but that’s his most devastating smile, the one that curls at his lips and in his eyes and speaks of all the filthy things he knows you’ve thought of him, thought to do to him. It’s powerful enough turned on other people, like Zayn’s seen it before; turned on Zayn it nearly takes him out at the knees.

“Gonna take me to bed now, Zayn?” Harry asks, his voice rough.

Zayn gathers the remnants of his self-control around him. “Gonna put you to bed,” he corrects, and puts a hand at the small of Harry’s back to lead him down the short hall to Zayn’s room.

Harry goes, easily enough, still looking around with big wide eyes that only get wider when they get to Zayn’s room, looking at the mixture of art and books and comics and music and pictures of family and random other things that make it up. “Yes,” he says, a bit nonsensically. “Yes, here.”

“Right. You okay to go to bed, or do you need help?” Zayn needs to leave. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to sleep again if he sees Harry in his bed. He’ll probably have to move, and he likes it here.

Harry turns huge eyes on him. “You’re not going to stay?” He sounds like a kid being told Santa isn’t real.

“Nah, you can have the bed. I’ll kip on the couch. I can sleep anywhere.”

Harry blinks, slowly, like he’s filing that away. “You could share with me.”

Zayn sighs, and pushes Harry gently down onto the bed. “You’re drunk, Harry.”

“So?” Harry lets out a jerky breath when he kneels down to undo Harry’s shoes.

Slowly, deliberately, in at least an attempt to gather himself, Zayn slides off Harry’s boots, one at a time. Only once that’s done does he let himself look up. Harry’s gazing down at him, his hands fisted in the sheets, his legs spread. It’d be so fucking easy, if it wasn’t wrong. If it wouldn’t break Zayn utterly. Better to let Harry remain his beautiful, unattainable dream.

Just to brace himself—and only for that, he lies to himself—he puts a hand on Harry’s thigh as he straightens. “So, no,” he answers at last.

“Yeah.” Harry sighs, and flops backwards onto the bed. “You wouldn’t. You’re so good, you know, Zayn? So good. Beautiful and smart and nice and good, and I never manage it, not really? I don’t get all of you. I try and I try and I try and I write all the songs and none of them measure up.”

Zayn’s too tired, too worn out, to decipher that. “Go to sleep, Harry.”

“Whatever you say, Zayn.” Zayn turns away at that, so the last sight he gets of Harry is him spread-eagled over Zayn’s sheets, hair spread around his head like a halo, his eyes shining green. “I’d do whatever you say.”

Zayn turns off the lights, shuts the door, and stumbles down to the living room. Normally he’s wired after work, messes around on the computer for a while, detoxes. But not tonight. Tonight he strips off his shoes, shirt, and jeans, grabs a blanket from the closet, and flops down on the couch, pulling his blanket over him. He needs to sleep. Needs to forget all those lovely things Harry said about him tonight, all those things he knows were just drunk talk and don’t count. It’s not the first time someone’s drunkenly thought they were in love with him. It’s just…the first time it’s happened with someone Zayn’s more than half in love with himself.

It doesn’t count if they’re drunk, he tells himself, as he drifts off to sleep. And Harry has the person in his songs, whoever’s so lovely and wonderful and who he does more than have a casual flirt with. It doesn’t count when you’re drunk.

\---

Zayn’s always woken up slowly, reluctantly, and that morning is no different. What is different, though, is that he can feel light on his face, and he’d chosen his blackout curtains very carefully given he’s basically nocturnal. Then he starts to process the rough fabric beneath his cheek, and the fleece of his blanket rather than his duvet, and he remembers. He doesn’t open his eyes though, not yet, because maybe he can catch a few more minutes of sleep and pretend last night didn’t happen.

It’s only then, when he’s drifting in the place between waking and sleeping, that he hears it. Music, the low sound of an acoustic guitar. Harry. He’s awake. He’s here.

Zayn should probably be a good host, he figures reluctantly, and opens his eyes. He shuts them again when it’s too bright, then tries again, more slowly. It’s better.

The music’s coming from Zayn’s room, he thinks, so he pulls his jeans back on, and stumbles into the kitchen to turn on coffee. Once that’s started, he stops in the bathroom to brush his teeth, then continues to his bedroom.

He stops in the doorway at the sight, his heart contracting painfully. Harry’s cross-legged on his bed, in just a pair of Zayn’s sweatpants, so all of his chest is on display, all those muscles and ink and skin that Zayn’s never quite been able to see before. There’s a notebook open in front of him, and he’s wrapped over his guitar to scribble in it. His hair is a loose mess of curls around his face, and he looks so, so lovely Zayn hurts a bit.

“Hey,” he says, then clears his throat from the harshness. “Hey,” he repeats.

Harry’s heard jerks up and over. His eyes are still wide, but his face breaks into a smile when he sees Zayn. “Hey! Good morning.” His smile dies a little bit. “I’m sorry, did I wake you up? I was trying to be quiet, but I just couldn’t help it.”

“Nah, ‘s fine.” Zayn scrubs at his face, trying to force himself into waking up. He needs coffee. He needs Harry not to look all close and attainable near him. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I don’t get hangovers. It’s pretty great. ‘s my superpower, Nick says.”

“Nick?” Stupid, Zayn swears as soon as it’s out of his mouth. He doesn’t want to know about that. Doesn’t want to know anything about whoever’s in Harry’s songs for real.

“A mate.”

A ding goes off in the kitchen, and Zayn breathes a sigh of relief as he gestures for Harry to wait and goes to get a mug. Instead of waiting, Harry follows him, slinging his guitar around him as he walks.

Zayn refuses to look back until he’s taken his first sip of coffee and can feel his brain jumpstarting. Then he turns to look at Harry.

He’s leaning against the island, watching Zayn with something that Zayn thinks is a smile. “Want one?” Zayn asks, gesturing with his mug.

“Nah, ‘m good. I’m a morning person.”

“’Course you are.” Zayn takes another long sip, cradling the mug between his hands.

“What’s that mean?”

“I don’t trust morning people.”

“You don’t trust me?” Harry whines teasingly. “’m hurt, Zayn.”

“Good.” Zayn takes another drink. He thinks he’s something resembling human now. “Want something else? Water? Something to eat?”

“Shit.” Zayn draws back. He hadn’t meant to offend in offering food. “No, no!” Harry holds up his hands. “I just, I meant to make you breakfast to thank you, but then I forgot.”

“How long have you been up?” One more drink, and then he’s finished his first mug. He usually tries to stick with one, but he feels like he’s going to need more today, so he refills his mug.

“Hour, maybe?” Harry glances down at himself. “Hope you don’t mind about the sweats, I just thought you might think it was weirder if I was just sitting there in boxers? I’ve been told people don’t like that.”

“’s fine,” Zayn repeats. He’s been trying pretty hard not to think about that, actually. About Harry in his sweats, about what’s under them. About anything about last night, really. Then, “You had to be told?”

“Yeah. Don’t much see the point of clothes, myself.”

“That explains your shirts.”

Harry grins at him, quick and cheerful. “Nah, that’s just for you.”

It’s easy, like their flirtation always has been. But Zayn can’t help but think of last night, of everything Harry had said, of the way Harry had felt biting at his neck. So instead of retorting, like he usually would, he ducks his head, back into the coffee.

Harry must feel the change in mood, because Zayn can almost hear the grin disappear. “Zayn,” he says, slowly, “About everything I said last night…”

“Don’t worry about it.” Zayn’s fingers clench around his mug. “I’m a bartender, I know how to ignore drunk talk.”

“Drunk talk?” Harry echoes.

“Yeah, the shit people say when they’re drunk that they don’t mean. Some people talk shit when they’re drunk, some people tell everyone they’re in love with them. It happens.” Leave it, Zayn wants to yell. Just leave it alone.

But of course Harry doesn’t. “I told you I loved you?” Harry demands. “When I was drunk?” He sounds horrified. It’s a little insulting, really. Zayn might not be the person in his songs, but he’s not an awful person. He’s been told he’s a good boyfriend, all told.

“No, just a lot of other stuff.” Zayn shrugs. “Told you, it’s fine. I know it’s not true. I know the songs aren’t, like, about me or anything.”

Harry blinks. “What?”

“Nothing.” Fuck. He shouldn’t have even brought that up.

“Zayn, what?”

“Like, one of the things you said was that you wrote songs about me. It’s nothing, I said.”

“What else did I say?” Harry asks, evenly. His fingers are clenched around the neck of his guitar, though, so at least he’s not totally casual. That’s a bit comforting.

“Just, a bunch of shit. About me being…” his voice catches, but he works through it. “Beautiful, and good, and yours. And you came on to me. But it doesn’t matter. We can leave it.”

“Leave it?”

“Yeah, I—”

“Know what I did this morning?” Harry interrupts him. Very carefully, he sets his guitar down, leans it against the counter.

“Played guitar?”

“I woke up in your bed, and there was about ten seconds between when I realized where I was and when I remembered what happened, and they were the best ten seconds of my life.” Harry pushes his hair back from his face, and tilts his head back almost proudly. Zayn—Zayn doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to process. “Then I came out of your room, and I meant to cook breakfast, to do something nice—but then I saw you, on the couch. And you were all curled up, and the light was on your face, and you looked so beautiful, you looked so much like everything I—like everything, I had to turn around, and write it down. I had to try at least. Had to try to capture the moment.”

“Harry…” Zayn’s hands are shaking, he notices idly.

“I meant everything I said last night,” Harry declares, and Zayn’s heart thumps painfully in his chest. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it probably, but I didn’t lie, and I’m not going to lie about it. Fuck, Zayn. I’ve loved you since I saw you, I think. Longer. Sometimes I think I’ve been writing about you my whole life.”

Somehow, Zayn manages to start his thoughts enough to get words out. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

“I…” Harry pulls on his hair again. “I don’t know. I wanted you to figure it out. To come to me. To, like, want me as much as I want you, I guess?”

“Harry…”

“I’m sorry, I don’t want to make this weird, but I can’t—I can’t just not say it anymore. I can’t have you thinking I lied about all of that, because I didn’t. You are the best. You are beautiful, and smart, and nice, and good. I saw you taking care of Liam last night and I think I fell in love all over again. After I stopped being jealous.”

“Jealous?”

“Madly. I am every time.” Harry takes a step closer to Zayn. Zayn’s hands tighten on his mug like it’s a shield. He doesn’t know how to deal with this. Harry’s a dream. Harry’s his beautiful, wonderful dream, and now he’s saying he’s not. Now he’s saying he’s been right here, all along. That he’s been waiting for Zayn. “Did you really never see? Everyone knows. Pretty sure Liam figured it out. I’m pretty sure anyone who’s heard anything I’ve written knows. ”

“I…don’t know. Maybe?” Zayn sets down his coffee cup to scrub a hand over his face. “Really? Any of them?”

“All of them.” Harry takes another step forward. Pretty soon he’ll be close enough to touch. “You were looking, every time. How were you not listening?”

“I was!”

“Whiskey eyes, drunk on them all night,” Harry sings softly, then switches songs. “Your smile makes my sun rise, your voice makes my heart die. I could go on.”

“But…you?”

“Yeah. Shit, Zayn, yeah, of course.”

Finally, with hands that he’s proud to see aren’t trembling, Zayn reaches out, so his hand brushes against Harry’s arm. “You meant it?”

“Everything.” Harry stands still as Zayn’s hand slides up his arm, over the hard muscles of his shoulders, but Zayn can feel him quivering under his touch. “All of it. Always.”

“Even—”

“Yes,” Harry swears. His voice is rough too; he sounds as shaken as Zayn feels. “Fuck, Zayn, please, is this okay, can I touch you—”

Zayn answers him by pulling his head down to meet Zayn’s.

There’s a moment, a second, where Harry’s lips are still under his, and Zayn wonders if this was all a dream, if his subconscious is playing tricks on him, if he somehow misread everything that went before.

Then Harry moans into his mouth and grabs at his face, pulling him closer like he’s desperate for it, like he can’t breathe for touching Zayn. Zayn’s there too, his fingers clenched on Harry’s neck, his other hand tight enough on Harry’s hip that it might bruise, that he hopes it bruises. Harry opens his mouth and Zayn’s tongue slips in, and he’s pushing enough that Harry stumbles backwards into the counter, so Zayn can press even closer, can taste everything he is.

“Fuck, yes, Zayn, please,” Harry’s panting as Zayn moves to kiss down his neck, “Please, Zayn, yes.”

Zayn pulls back for a second. Harry’s lips are swollen, and his eyes are bright and glassy and he’s flushed, and he looks a bit like he did last night, but so much better. “Come on,” Zayn says, and moves his hand to wrap it around Harry’s wrist. “Bedroom.”

“You actually taking me to bed this time, Zayn?” Harry laughs, and lets Zayn tug him down the hall into the bedroom. Before they get all the way to the bed Harry yanks on his wrist to bring Zayn back to him, to kiss him again with his hands tangling in his hair and his legs pressed against Zayn’s. Zayn pushes back, into him, his hands skimming over Harry’s side and back, all the skin bared to his touch now, all the parts of Harry he’d always guiltily try not to notice.

Harry pulls away this time, starts kissing down Zayn’s neck, right where he was last night. “No mark,” he mutters, between sucking hard. “Damn it, I hoped there was going to be a mark.”

“Me too,” Zayn admits, and he can feel Harry’s smile when he pressed a kiss right there on Zayn’s collarbone.

“I’ll leave one now,” Harry promises, “Leave one everywhere, fuck, want you marked up, all those people flirting with you know you’re mine…”

“Flirting with me?” Zayn asks. His hands have found Harry’s ass through his sweatpants, and Harry makes an interesting squeaking noise when he squeezes. “What about you, up on that stage—”

“Singing about how much I love you every night?” Harry runs his tongue over the script on Zayn’s collarbone. “Pretty sure people knew they didn’t have a chance.”

“Not from where I was standing.” Speaking of standing, they’re doing too much of it, so Zayn grabs onto Harry’s shoulders and pulls them both backwards, so they tumble together onto the bed. They land on their sides, and then Zayn rolls over them, so he’s straddling Harry’s waist. Harry grins up at him, dimples wide and his hair all spread out like last night, and it’s the most magical, magnetic thing Zayn’s ever seen.

“Zayn,” Harry breathes, and Zayn leans down to kiss him again.

It’s not the frantic, fast kisses anymore. Zayn takes his time, exploring Harry’s mouth and letting Harry explore him in return, so it’s slow and deep and sends earthquakes of heat through Zayn’s bones. Their hips are grinding together almost lazily, and Zayn can feel how hard Harry is through his sweats, just like he is, but there’s no desperation anymore. He wants to savor. To thoroughly check that Harry won’t dissolve into some sort of dream-mist beneath him.

Harry seems to be on the same page, as he slowly runs his fingers down Zayn’s back, over his ass and thighs then back up again, settling in the hair at the nape of his neck and curling into a firm grip.

Finally, though, the temptation gets too much, and Zayn starts to kiss down Harry’s jaw to his chest, over all the ink there he’s caught glimpses of. He licks around Harry’s nipple and Harry lets out a whine, his fingers tightening on Zayn’s neck, and it’s almost as pretty a sound as any of his songs, so Zayn sets to coaxing it out of him again, licking and biting around his other nipple until Harry’s panting and his hips are bucking.

Zayn smiles into his skin, then moves lower—then sits up again. Harry looks utterly debauched, his lips scarlet, his hair a mess, and Zayn, for the first time in years, has an urge to paint. To draw him like this, desperate and open on Zayn’s bed. “What do you want to do now?” he asks, though. “Like, I don’t want to push—”

Harry laughs again, and pushes up to kiss Zayn quickly on his lips. “Told you, whatever you want. I’d do whatever you want. You don’t know what I’ve thought of.”

“Oh? Maybe you should tell me.” Harry’s clever fingers have gotten his jeans open. He hisses with the first hit of cool air against his cock, and then again when Harry’s hands run up his bare thighs.

This time Harry rolls them over, then goes to work tugging Zayn’s jeans all the way off, Zayn lifting his hips to help. “First thing I thought, when I saw you, was how much I wanted to blow you under the bar,” Harry says, his voice that low, rough thing that goes straight to Zayn’s cock. “Just going to my knees under it, see if I could make you lose your cool.”

Zayn’s hips stutter, and Harry smirks as it’s his turn to kiss down Zayn’s chest. He doesn’t know what he’s spending so much time on—Zayn knows he’s good looking, but it’s in his face and bones, never in his weedy muscles—but he’s not going to say no to Harry enjoying himself as he nips down Zayn’s chest and stomach.

“Then I started thinking about how much you listen, and whether anyone ever listened to you. Want to listen to you, to see what you need.” Finally, Harry gets a hand around Zayn’s aching cock, and Zayn’s breath hisses out of him. “Just spread you out and see if I could get you to sing for me.”

Zayn snorts at that, and Harry lifts his head from where he was licking at the heart on Zayn’s hip to pout. “Hey, no laughing while I’m dirty-talking!”

“But it was a ridiculous line,” Zayn retorts, and tugs on Harry’s hair until he comes back up so Zayn can kiss him.

When they separate, Harry’s smiling again. “Did I ever tell you how much I love that about you?” he asks, darting back in for another quick kiss. “That you tell me when I’m being ridiculous?”

“Given that you never mentioned—fuck,” he cuts himself off when Harry strokes a finger slowly up his thighs, “never mentioned love before, don’t think so, no.”

“I’ll mention it all the time now,” Harry promises.

“Good, fuck, now you…” Zayn trails off, but he’s pushing at Harry’s sweats—at his sweats, fuck—and Harry helps him, both of them tugging them off so they’re both so wonderfully naked, strong thighs and narrow waist and his cock, shit.

“Fuck, Harry,” he says as he stares.

Harry smiles, shakes his head so his hair falls more evenly around his face. “Okay.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, but he’s distracted from saying anything because Harry’s sliding down his body until he’s between his legs, and the grin he shoots up at him is smug right before he takes Zayn into his mouth.

“Shit…” Zayn’s hands clench in the sheets as his hips jerk, and he bites hard on his lip to hold in the other sounds building in him, as Harry presses kisses to his length, then takes him down again, deeper, before he pulls off with a wet pop and a line of saliva still connecting his lips to the head of Zayn’s cock.

“Don’t mind you being loud,” he informs Zayn, kissing idly at his thighs. “Want to hear you. Told you, I love your voice. Been wondering if I could drag you up on stage with me one day.”

“Don’t—”

“Later,” Harry agrees, and then proceeds to make Zayn loud like he rarely is, with his mouth and hands and Zayn’s never quite been taken apart like this, never dreamed it could be like this, never dreamed Harry would be like this, purring in such satisfaction over his cock so the vibrations make him squirm and arch.

“Fuck, Harry, I’m going to…” Harry pulls off at Zayn’s warning, then wraps his hand around him and tugs once, twice, and then Zayn’s coming on a string of swear words and ‘Harry’s, which feel like the same thing.

He collapses back on the bed after, watches through half-lidded eyes as Harry wipes his hand on the discarded sweatpants and then clambers back up Zayn to kiss him again, long and deep and slow, not pushing but with his hips rutting against Zayn’s thighs, until Zayn’s recovered enough to roll them over again and reach down. At the first touch of his hand Harry moans, loud and shameless, and that’s Zayn’s favorite sound.

“Fucking hell, Harry, and you say you love my voice,” Zayn groans, and then goes to work, jerking Harry off slowly and carefully until Harry’s writhing beneath him, his hips thrusting helplessly into Zayn’s hand, “God, you’re so pretty, the sounds you make, fucking love them, fucking love you—” Harry comes at that, at the words alone, Zayn thinks, as he coaxes Harry through the aftershocks.

He wipes his hand on the sweatpants as well, then falls down next to Harry. Harry immediately rearranges them so Harry’s head is resting on Zayn’s chest, and Zayn’s arm is wrapped around his shoulders.

“I’m a cuddler,” he announces to Zayn, as he does so.

Zayn smiles down at his hair. “Me too,” he admits, and Harry glances up at him with a grin and another quick kiss before he lets his head fall back down.

Zayn pets his hands through Harry’s hair sort of idly, more to remind himself this is real than anything else. Harry’s here. In his bed. With him. Harry said he loved him, said he wanted him, said—“Are you singing?” he asks, incredulously.

Harry turns over a bit so he can push himself up on one arm and look down at Zayn. “They’re your songs,” he says. He’s nearly glowing, he’s smiling so hard. “I’m all full up of you. Of them. Had to let some out.”

Zayn can’t help but kiss him them, then Harry settles back in against him, humming out songs Zayn’s never heard before, but he can feel the vibrations of Harry’s chest against his, and it lulls him back to sleep.

\---

Liam comes back into the bar the next night. He looks a lot better, in a button-down shirt this time, with many less bags under his eyes and red cheeks. Niall takes one look at him and bursts into laughter; Zayn glares at him then smiles gently at Liam.

“Hey,” he says. Harry’s playing again, so it’s pretty crowded even if he wasn’t really scheduled, but Zayn feels a bit invested in Liam. So he pours Liam a whiskey and hands it to him. “You get home all right?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Liam runs a hand over his head like he’s used to there being hair there. “For putting me in a cab and all.”

“Part of the job.” Zayn leans against the bar. Harry’s switched songs, and it makes Zayn want to shiver but also burn, knowing it’s about him. “You feeling better?”

“Bit, yeah. That’s why I came by. I wanted to thank you for that. For listening, and all.”

“No problem.” Zayn smiles again, so Liam knows it really is okay. “Long as you’re feeling better.”

“I am.” Liam rubs at his head again, and fiddles with the whiskey glass, but he doesn’t seem ready to say anything else, so Zayn moves down the bar. He takes orders with half an ear, more concentrated on listening to Harry play, on watching Harry glow up there on stage. But eventually someone orders something more complicated than a pint, and he gets distracted. He glances over at Liam, but he’s flirting happily with a nice-looking brunette.

“Hi, can I get a sex on the beach?” Zayn glances up at the guy ordering. He’s got a nice head of blonde hair, and he’s almost intimidatingly tall and muscled, and his thin lips are curved into a suggestive smile.

“Sure, mate,” Zayn agrees, and turns away to mix it. When he’s done, the guy’s still wearing that smile.

“Didn’t mean the drink,” he purrs.

Zayn smirks back, like he hasn’t heard that line a thousand times. “All I can give you, sorry.”

“If you change your mind.” He scribbles a number on a napkin, and hands it to Zayn with the cash. He winks at Zayn before he turns to stride away.

Zayn would roll his eyes, but it’s a nice tip, so he just puts it in the till and is going back to check on Liam when he recognizes a change on stage from the set he could probably recite by heart.

“Sorry,” Harry’s saying, and he’s putting down his guitar. “One second.” He grins apologetically at the crowd, who murmurs in confusion, then Harry’s hopping off the stage and pushing through people to get to the bar, right to Zayn, who’s stood more or less frozen as everyone looks at Harry. At Harry, coming to him. Then Harry’s pushing over the edge of the bar to grab at Zayn’s collar and pulling him across the bar to kiss him, slow and dirty and long, so full of the electricity that he holds on stage that Zayn feels his knees want to go weak with it.

“Harry?” Zayn whispers, when Harry pulls away enough to rest their foreheads against each other.

Harry’s grin flashes. “Told you, jealous,” he tells Zayn, before he pulls away to make his way back to the stage, dragging all the eyes with him, even though some linger on Zayn curiously. He ducks his head to polish at the bar.

“Sorry,” Harry tells the crowd as he settles back onto his stool. He rearranges his guitar, then leans forward, like he’s telling a secret. “Had to kiss my muse.” He sits back up, flashes them a grin that ends up on Zayn.

Zayn grins back. “Love you,” he mouths, and Harry’s smile could light up the stage. He blows a kiss back, to collective ‘aw’s from the crowd, then adjusts the tuning on his guitar.

“Now this is a new song,” he announces, “Got my inspiration very lately, because someone who I won’t mention but who you should probably tip very well so he can keep me in the state to which I’m accustomed, finally listened.”

Everyone laughs, even Zayn, and Zayn leans on the edge of the bar and watches Harry play his song.

**Author's Note:**

> Liked it? Want to talk about it/anything at all? Come say hi on [ tumblr!](http://ridiculouslittleidiots.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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